


the motion of a saw

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Banter, Dildos, Dirty Talk, F/F, Governor Bennett, One Shot, Prisoner Ferguson, Season/Series 05, Shameless Smut, Smut, Taunting, in the slot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 18:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20451950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Governor Bennett finds that the devil's up to her old (and some new) tricks while in the slot...





	the motion of a saw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsYukari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsYukari/gifts).

> Greetings! So, this fic is a birthday gift for my dear friend, MsYukari, who has been such a supportive, wonderful person in my life. Together, we've written collabs (with another on the way), encouraged one another to get our fics out there, and discussed the writing process. I'm so happy to have met you in person, too. She's a sweet soul and I'm happy to call her my friend. Cheers! Happy Birthday to you, friendo!
> 
> Hope all you readers enjoy this one. :)

> _“Go ahead and watch my heart burn_ _  
With the fire that you started in me”_
> 
> (**watch** \- billie eilish)

Like clockwork, Governor Bennett pulls herself through the machinations that accompany her starring role. She dares to believe that she is the master of her fate although another mistress tugs on her marionette strings. Under the pretense of the night, she roams as the ghost of the mousy woman that she used to be. The isolation unit exists in plain sight. Unlike protection, there is no glass wall to display sad eyes and sadder lies of women trapped with nowhere left to run.

Rebelling against the Top Dog-Governor dynamic, Vera had dared to slot Prisoner Ferguson just a day prior. The role of Top Dog offers just a taste of what Ferguson is capable of. Conflated concerns get the better of her. Worry furrows her brow and stacks the lines high on her forehead, very nearly reaching her hairline. Accompanied by the bite from staff cutbacks, Miss Bennett finds herself to be a ball of nervous energy even beneath the cool composure she forcefully assumes. Few screws linger in the hallway during the Witching Hour. Most have returned to the hole from whence they came. For the sake of Wentworth’s budget, Vera had to make that call.

Akin to the days of old, her utility belt rattles, fitting snugly around her trim waist. Her uniform feels skin-tight, constrictive at times, but tailored to her petite build. The key (to the kingdom, if you can call prison that) connected to the chain hides deep within the pocket of her trousers.

What she finds in solitary confinement takes her by surprise. As if she was Bluebeard’s wife, her trembling fingers pause before gripping her badge to grant herself entry. Quizzical blue eyes flit to the pathetic sliver that calls itself a window. Her mouth hangs ajar while she acts scandalized by the salacious sight. With all inhibitions seemingly gone, Ferguson has chosen to spend her time in the throes of passion. Lucifer rebelled and thus, she fell. 

So her reinvention, molded into a shadow governor, approaches her in solitary confinement. She doesn’t deny what this is, what this could be. Nude in all her glory and unashamed, Joan sprawls languidly across the uncomfortable, rickety, stiff cot. Perfectly poised, Clytemnestra treats the bed as her throne. Her mane flows as a river, as dark and gleaming as blood on asphalt. A prison pillow rests under each one of her voluptuous hips. She cups a generous breast, the tip of her thumbnail coaxing her nipple to harden; still, her hungry touch lingers.

“Have you come to bring me sweets?” Joan croons, her obsidian gaze half-lidded. “Shall I refer to you as Governor or Vera?”

Beauty swathed in the grime and golden glow; the blanket gives away nothing: that fine body is an offering to be worshiped. Incredulous, with her diamond eyes as large as saucers, she cocks her head at the toy between sturdy marble thighs. The midnight black double-ended dildo begs to be played with.

Baffled, Miss Bennett shakes her head, cheeks tinged a deep shade of scarlet. Just by looking that infuriating woman over, her mouth feels rather dry.

“How did you smuggle _that_ in?”

“Contraband works in mysterious ways.” Spoken like the Riddle Sphinx, Joan smirks.

That smug disposition grates on Vera.

“Care for a pair of gloves?” Governor Bennett quips, a hardened glint to her once-crying diamond eyes. The militant edge isn’t her. Doesn’t belong to her. There’s something soft and dying beneath the surface.

The unprecedented retaliation sends a delightful shiver down the Devil’s spine. A smirk remains in place.

“My, my. Testy, are we? Pity. You’ve only come to watch.” _You’re not capable of executive action. _“Keeping me all to yourself, hm? There’s hardly any stimulation in here.”

“You’re right where you deserve to be, Joan,” she finds her voice after a particularly rough swallow.

In an act of complete and utter depravity, she works the tip of the toy against her hardened clit. Slowly, she begins to rub, painted strokes running up and down. Warm from the building pressure, wetness pools between her legs. The expression on dear Vera’s face – a cross between desire and outrage – is simply delicious. With a soft exhale, she pushes the tip inside and fucks herself at a languid pace.

Much to her loathing, the verbal barrage while borderline degrading, does something for Vera alongside the glorious sight. She finds herself incapable of telling Joan “no” – of stopping this from the moment it all began. She can’t conceal the fact that she’s turned on. The steady, persistent pulse between her legs refuses to subside.

“You never were one to engage in a battle of wits, Vee-rah. Give in.”

Mistress Mephistopheles taunts, tempts, and teases. Always watching, always waiting, even behind bars, Ferguson resembles the panopticon.

“Take off the uniform, Vera. I want to see you without the crowns.”

The pips dig into the Governor’s shoulders; she feels their weight even through the thin material of her button-down blouse. As if spellbound, she works loose the knot in her tie. Surrendering self-restraint, Vera strips herself down to flesh and bone. Her uniform pools around her ankles. Thus so far, she’s kept the heels on and swears that Joan wets her carmine lips. Without further hesitation, she kicks them off.

In Vera, she spies a small glimmer of herself.

_-And she ruined it,_ Joan swears.

Hypnotized by the image of Joan fucking herself, she approaches the cot. Neglects the steel door that cages the two of them. Her teeth sink into her plush mouth, now chapped from a habit which refuses to die. Timidly, as if she’s reverted to the role of Deputy, she caresses herself on the edge of the bed. Dainty fingers caress the curve of her breasts, the flat expanse of her belly, before delving to her aching wetness. It’s a romantics touch. Never do they break that wanton look.

“This how you get yourself off? Quick and eager beneath the sheets, mm? Surely, you must think of me... Do you fantasize about me fucking you or would you rather feel big and powerful by fucking me?” Such crude language.

“_Enough_,” Vera rebuttals in a noxious hiss, torn between frustration and desire. 

“Come now. Where’s your sense of foreplay?” Joan spears her with so much as an icy stare laden with mirth. The stare down consists of enough intimacy. 

On the cot, her knees bend and her legs cant. The mouse strikes though there isn’t any venom in her bite. Her timid fingers harness some inner strength. She grips the Devil by the thigh and has the gall to say, “Let me touch you.”

Translation: _let me see you._

Joan goads her further, “Open yourself up for me.” 

That husky tenor could easily suffocate her. Some nights, in her dreams, she drowns in this mutual obsession. 

“Nice to see you’ve taken the initiative,” Ferguson lazily remarks, her voyeuristic stare drifting across her former deputy’s toned body 

Gone is the meek and modest woman who would have resigned her life as a shit-kicker in this hellhole. 

“I’ve had enough of your sanctimonious trifling,” Vera seethes.

“I see that you’ve taken it upon yourself to expand your vocabulary,” she drawls.

Kneeling on the mattress with her legs spread apart, her fingers slip past the damp curls to her swollen, wet lips. Yes, she opens herself up for Joan. The altar is exposed. In a state of delirium, it feels like she’s losing her mind. Her rabbit heart sits in her stomach. The wolf may as well devour it.

“_Fuck_,” Vera emits a strangled cry, all grief, hate, and unrequited longing now twisted.

“The reins are yours for the taking,” Ferguson coos in a sickly-sweet intonation.

Three fingers slip inside coaxed by her own damnable wetness. She stretches herself for the final offering, curling them ever deeper, slickness running down her knuckles in small rivulets.

“That’s three fingers,” Joan patronizes while one corner of her mouth curls upright. “Try another.” Her devilish hand grips Vera by the wrist, nail prodding at the light blue veins strained against her skin.

“Why don’t _you_ give me more?” Vera counters, voice hoarse, shivering from the magnetic pull between hot and cold.

“Such a quarrelsome, little mouse. Have you not had your fill?” This Mistress of Manipulations chides.

Bending the remainder as an invitation to Vera, she can smell her cunt dampen with arousal. Slick fingers threaten to pull out, but Joan’s hold on her wrist beckons for her to fuck herself. The tempo increases, the symphony the gushing flow between her coltish legs. Even now, Joan guides her to self-discovery, to find her release. Unrelentingly, the Devil lets go to allow Vera to pursue her lustful ambitions.

“You and I, we’re connected.”

Deadlocked in a stalemate, Vera positions herself to mount the other end of the dildo. It’s thicker than her fingers and oh so tantalizing to have Ferguson connected on the other end. Sliding deeper inside, their cunts nearly touch. Vera steadies herself by gripping heavenly marble thighs. This is what it means to be fulfilled. A little corps-à-corps never meant any harm.

Flexible enough to experiment with angles, she rolls her hips, forcing the dildo deeper into Vera. Outside of Vera’s fantasies, this is the closest she’s ever been to Joan – they’ve never been together like this; so it becomes a sloppy first.

Moved by arduous motion, the prison-issued linens ripple around them. They discover a rhythm: a way to get off. Sheets (grayer than their washed-up morals) twist between curled fingers. At first, Vera creates some semblance of distance. Her forearms frame Joan’s head. Over time, she touches her. Engaged in a furious dance of death, she grips her maker’s broad shoulders, her breasts, falls victim to closeness and need. Even dares to stroke the lioness’ cheek and ignores bared teeth. This isn’t in the rule book anymore. The dirty hands policy has changed.

Desperation masquerades itself as heated fury; they lock eyes, wanton and wrathful, the near insatiable hunger accompanying the persistent ache. In raw hunger, they chase something far more unattainable than release. Liaisons between Top Dog and Governor are commonplace. She fucks her like it’s the end to their ruinous affair.

She takes and she takes, but does she **ever** give?

Still, past the waves of betrayal and hate, Vera looks at her like she’s a god. It nullifies the pain they have inflicted: an anesthetic for their barbed poison.

Ensnared by her irresistible charm, a kiss tattoos the hollow of Joan’s neck. She tastes salt and sweat from the sharp curve of her clavicle. She drags her tongue along. Vera tastes the residue of their machinations. This is one way to suck the poison out. 

Although Ferguson appears startled for a fleeting moment, the feeling passes, replaced by provocation. With only a smoldering stare, she compels her ex-disciple to pick up the pace. A liar’s palm smacks that pert, little ass which fills the panTs so well. Startled yet aroused, Vera squeaks. Jolts forward so that the thickness rubs against her swollen, twitching clit.

As a punitive measure, nails rake down the musculature of her back, all sinew and her spine strained against honeyed skin. The thin, pink welts on Vera’s back burn. She flexes, ignoring the ache in her hips, her thighs colliding with Ferguson’s. The physical manifestation of the Devil’s Mark will heal in a few days’ time, but it’s the reminder and the shame that remains.

Sweat sticks to the curve of her brow. Pinned beneath her in this frantic dance, the Governor thinks she holds her captor captive. Seeking control, Joan bucks her hips, pining for her own pleasure and the chase alike. She seizes hold of the writhing smaller woman who reenacts Salome’s passionate throes. The throbbing ache is only temporarily satisfied. Hunger drives them wild. Held captive by her cruel tormentor, Miss Bennett is just as incarcerated as the woman in teal. Vera knew better than to underestimate this devil’s strength.

“You wish to exert your power over me, mm?”

Broken down, resigned to their roles, corruption flows through their veins. There’s something sacred about this defilement. Fucked into oblivion, thrusts rival knife-like stabs. Her eyes very nearly roll into the back of her head though Joan hones her laser sharp gaze on the sacrificial lamb. From above, the impostor Guv’na grips her swaying breasts. She pinches and squeezes her stiffening nipples. She wants to lick, nibble, and suck on them, but something keeps her from doing so. They use one another for their pleasure.

“You’re a ghost, Vera, incapable of filling my shoes.” Insults fly, adding a pinch of eagerness to the rough fuck.

“Everyone despises you,” Vera leers from above.

“Including you,” Ferguson has the audacity to add, all nettle and sting.

In her resilience, Vera tries to bandage the sinking ship that is their dynamic.

“Let me kiss you properly.” The plea gets denied.

Her fingers trickle down Joan’s forearm in a loose, wandering motion.

Body language speaks volumes. It’s all in the hips. The taut muscle of her neck jumps out, perfect for Ferguson to sink her teeth into; she dares to lay claim to her prize.

Denying a kiss, Joan lowers her head, tongue trailing down between the valley of Miss Bennett’s breasts. That serpentine tongue coaxes a nipple to hardness. From such a skilled yet wicked mouth, Vera shivers. A whimper leaves her upon feeling the clamping bite of possession. Little red marks adorn her chest, proudly declaring that the Devil has her soul.

With an upward glance, she whispers against bare flesh. Governor Bennett bounces on top, her face flushed, her mouth trembling while she grinds down, forcing the length deeper inside of Joan to which the wolf growls.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, _myshka_?”

Steady inertia propels them; their climax remains a collaborative effort. Push and pull, give and take, reach a mutual understanding to achieve equilibrium. It’s all poetry.

To be seen and to see is a rare vulnerability.

From the exertion, Joan musters a grunt which becomes a husky moan. Shameless in the throes of wanton pleasure, her body shudders from the penetration. Somehow, this innate failure of a governor manages to please her.

“_There_,” she rasps as she holds her close, gripping Vera by her bony shoulders. She buries her pale, gleaming face into Bennett’s chest. Joan drowns in that wild, brazen heartbeat.

Tangled and coiled, hopelessly intertwined, this is what it means to be wholly consumed by someone.

Desire ferments, sours, and leaves them drunk from the taste. Holding one another down, tearing each other apart, they give and they take: the way it’s always been. As a performance for dominance, a show for control, Joan grips her narrow hips to lure her closer. From the thrill, her pulse races. They fuck without reservations.

She still holds admiration for her maker.

“Ah, Vera. You will always be my little underling. I can see it in your eyes that you would prefer to be below me, for me to hold you captive, as I have my way with you.”

And for a moment, Joan acknowledges that she yearns for that, too.

She cums, cunt pulsating to the thought of her power restored with the crowns and bun in her possession while fucking her Deputy from behind, claiming her by sinking her teeth into that taut, pretty throat.

How easy it is to make enemies out of each other. The violence of their transgressions speaks to the hurt that never healed.

The duet demonizes as much as it grounds them. It’s akin to tussling with an angel and there’s no time for her to swallow her bitterness; it’s the heat of the moment consisting of bodies pressed and coiled together. It’s all Vera ever wanted with Joan. But no, she had to go and want _more_. She wanted to be coddled, praised, and to be by her side.

With parted lips, Governor Bennett emits a mewling, strangled cry. Thighs tremble, muscles spasm, the orgasm rips through her, contracting and throbbing, soaked and annihilated. Ruined, her trembling, sweat-coated body threatens to collapse. Now spent, Vera lurches forward, a broad hand on the small of her back prevents her from falling over completely. A sturdy grip steadies her.

How beautiful she is when she comes apart, unraveling at the seams that hold her together. Her forearms tremble, braced to prevent herself from crumpling onto Joan. Hopelessly entangled, Vera allows herself to fall. Without a word, Joan catches her. Lets her lie still despite her aversion to contact, to infection, to rot. She clutches Vera Bennett’s waning innocence alongside her flushed, petite body.

Bruises vow to be the ghosts of tomorrow. There is a difficulty in disentangling themselves, the toy laying lifelessly away from their bodies, discarded like a pawn in a successful chess match. Tension releases a series of spasms and a stifled cry. The soreness, unlike her feelings, will be forgiven. She wants to stay like this though the carnage is already too great. _You can’t watch yourself fall._

Slumped down, tuckered out, neither woman can afford a kiss goodbye. Affection soured by bitterness, Joan hands her the cloth, a far cry from God with a disciple. Now, she looks away.

“Clean yourself. It would be deplorable for you to return to _my_ office sullied.”

After the glow comes the dubious regret. Vera fluctuates between regarding the act as a mistake and how desperately she craved it. She’s taken quite the tumble to have fallen so low.

“… I’m just like you.” Her bottom lip quivers. It’s a sorry sight for sore eyes.

The Devil purses her lips. Offers up a Gorgon’s stare. There’s a glimmer of an old memory: clamping Rita Bennett’s hand, whispering words as good as gold.

“No.” It’s the only protest she can muster. “You’re better.”

**Author's Note:**

> *myshka = Russian for 'little mouse' as a term of endearment 
> 
> Since the lovely MsYukari often links the music she listens to while writing, I'll do the same for her!
> 
> watch - billie eilish: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOs8MagOfwg  
hatef**k - the bravery: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOnSO7vJCTg  
der fall von leviathan - the church of synth: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58XUfezxKu4  
invincible - TOOL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxsld16TjSU  
descending - TOOL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PcSoLwFisaw


End file.
